Iain Pears - Stone's Fall

But then the atmosphere changed. 'A message for the American amongst us?' she moaned quietly. 'Yes, speak!' And we all looked at Drennan, who seemed not best pleased to be singled out in this fashion.

'Do you know someone called Rose? It is a message from someone called Rose.' She intoned, oddly businesslike now, talking in a normal voice which was much more frightening than the obviously fake ethereal tone she had employed up to now. 'She wishes to talk to you. She says she loves you still.'

This was when the amused air of the audience truly vanished, and utter silence descended. For we were all aware that Drennan's face had turned ashen, and he had stiffened in his chair as though he had received a terrible shock. But we said nothing. 'She says she forgives you.'

'Really? What for?' Longman asked, his plummy voice – quizzical and normal – sounding entirely out of place and almost shocking. Alas, the spirit was talking to itself, not indulging in a conversation. We got no answer to his question. Whether or not it made any sense to Drennan was unclear; his face was frozen and he was gripping the arms of his chair so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.

'Ah! She is gone!' the Marchesa said. 'She cannot stay.'

Then a long sigh and theatricality took over once more. We had another five minutes of little smiles, and frowns and 'Ohs! and 'Ahs!' Then more of the 'Come to me, O spirits!' nonsense, before she got down to business again. This time it was Cort who was being contacted, and I knew the moment she began that this was going to cause trouble. Drennan was tough, unemotional, sensible. But even he had been rattled. How Cort – so much more fragile – would react was fairly predictable. He was already looking pale, his gaze glassy, had complained of a headache during the meal, had eaten little. He did, however, drink prodigious quantities of water.

The Marchesa spun it out as well, the spirits coming and going, starting to speak then hesitating, having to be cajoled into giving their message. The build-up of tension was remarkably well done, and it was all too evident that Cort, now bolt upright and sweating, was succumbing to a bad case of nerves.

'Is there someone called William here?' she asked, which did not impress me overmuch, as she knew perfectly well that there was. 'There is someone here who wishes to talk to him.'

Cort, looking pale, but trying to maintain an expression of manly scepticism, put up his hand.

'Her name is Annabelle,' said the Marchesa, reverting to her usual voice. 'She is in great distress.'

Cort did not reply, but the Marchesa took silence as assent. 'It is one who loves you,' she said. 'She is sad and distressed. She says you know full well what she means.'

Cort, again, said nothing, but was breathing heavily, sweating profusely. Then the Marchesa began speaking in voices, a girlish squeak that was quite terrifying to hear even for me. The effect on Cort was indescribable. 'William, you are cruel. You dishonour your name. Stop, or he will take your soul. I am the one who gave my life, that you might live.'

A savage cry came from Cort's throat at this statement, and he screamed, pushing over his chair and backing, wild-eyed to the wall. The noise brought the Marchesa from her reverie, and she stared around in confusion – very convincingly, I must say. I do not think she was faking; she clearly did go into some sort of trance. Even I, sceptic though I was, was prepared to grant her this.

Then she focused on the scene her words had created, peering with alarm at the mayhem she had let loose. Cort, hard against the wall, sobbing and moaning; chairs tumbled over the floor as he had struck out at imagined apparitions; Drennan, the only one of us to maintain some self-possession, moving to pick up the candelabrum that had tumbled on the floor and which threatened to burn the place down; Louise leaping back from the table and standing stock still, staring at her husband.

'Cort, my dear fellow . . .' Longman began, advancing towards him.

Cort stared in terror at him, rushed to a side table where the sweetmeats and brandies had been placed, and grabbed a sharp knife used for peeling fruit. 'Get away from me! Get away! Leave me alone!' The tears flowed down his cheeks as he spoke, but underneath them there was anger as well.

Even though he had certainly never used a knife for such a purpose before, he looked dangerous to me and I was quite prepared to follow his instructions. Longman was made of braver – or more foolish – stuff. Even though Drennan called out a warning, he advanced on the young man, hands held out.

'Calm yourself, dear boy,' he said in a kindly fashion. 'There's nothing . . .'

He did not finish. Cort backed away towards his wife and began lashing out violently; it was obvious from his expression that he was not feinting. Louise fell back just in time, a long red scratch showing through the sleeve of her green dress. She fell to her knees with a piercing cry, gripping her wounded arm.

'Dear God!' 'Stop him!' 'Are you mad?' All these conventional phrases burst from people's lips as Cort turned, threw the knife on the floor, and ran for the door, just as Drennan hurled himself forward and brought him to the ground. There was no struggle; Cort made no resistance, but broke down completely, sobbing on the floor as all around looked on at the scene, horrified, appalled, disgusted, embarrassed according to their temperaments.

Then people reverted to type. Longman started moaning as though he had been stabbed, not Louise; Marangoni became medical and started to treat her, examining her wound with remarkable gentleness. The Marchesa collapsed in a fit of vapours, and Drennan, reassured that the violence had gone out of the man, coaxed Cort to his feet and over to a chair. Only I – not victim, not healer, not a hunter – had no natural role to adopt. I went to Louise to assist, but was pushed back by Marangoni, and I noticed an interested, knowing look on his face as he did so. So I pretended; surveyed the scene, escorted the Marchesa to a chair, and poured her – and myself – a large brandy. Louise was still kneeling on the ground, trembling with fear and shock. But her eyes puzzled me; they were wide, but not with the horror and fear of what had just happened.

The wound was not severe; the knife had penetrated flesh, but the damage was more dramatic than real. Marangoni swiftly bound it up with a napkin, and sat her down with a brandy as well. His pronouncement that she would live – it was obvious, but it is always good to have an expert opinion – lightened the atmosphere considerably. Then he turned his attention to Cort, who had collapsed and was sitting on the floor by the wall, hunched up, his arms around his legs, his head on his knees. I felt, at that moment, total loathing for him.

'He needs to be sedated,' he said. 'And he needs to sleep. Then we can see what is to be done with him. I assume no one wishes to involve the authorities?'

There was a chorus agreeing that this would be a bad idea. Marangoni looked almost satisfied, as though his predictions about Cort had come spectacularly true. But at least he knew what to do, could propose some course of action. He was, suddenly, a commanding presence and I realised for the first time why he was in a position of authority. He was good at it.

He gave his orders. Cort would be taken to his hospital for the night; Drennan would accompany him there, to make sure there were no further problems. In the morning he would begin a proper examination.

'And Mrs Cort? Someone must escort her home.'

'Of course you must not! You must stay with us, my dear Mrs Cort,' Longman said kindly.

'Or here. I have more room,' the Marchesa interrupted, seemingly a little annoyed at Longman's offer.

Louise nodded. 'Thank you,' she whispered. 'You are all very kind . . .'